Harry hurried to the window and gazed out. ‘Good grief! It looks as if the Hideous Vagon from Planet X has landed. Are you sure it was a vacuum cleaner?’
Elsie nodded quickly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it at supper, Harry. Oh I am glad you’re all right. Now, you get some cardboard and fix that window while I make something special – Bengal Chicken Curry! We need something good and hot. That Fatbag has put a proper chill up my spine.’
Sergeant Polski wished he could sit down to a solid meal. He gritted his teeth and walked back to the wreckage of his car. Chief Constable Durkin was standing there red-faced and furious.
‘I won’t have it Polski!’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going to let that monster get away with this!’ He banged a fist on Polski’s car and the side mirror fell off with a clatter.
‘Yes sir,’ replied the sergeant evenly. ‘Have you got, um, another plan sir!’ The chief constable glared at him angrily.
‘I’ve sent out an all-car alert,’ he said. ‘They’re to keep track of Fatbag until we decide to move in. Now let’s get back to the station and lay our plans. There’s no time to lose.’
Sergeant Polski glanced wearily at Constable Thomas. This vacuum cleaner problem was becoming an epic.
‘Yes sir,’ said Polski doggedly, and the three men set off for the police station, on foot.
By the time the police reached the station, Harry and Elsie were sitting comfortably at table with their Bengal Chicken Curry in front of them.
‘It’s delicious,’ Harry said. ‘You’re a magician.’
Elsie smiled. ‘It’s quite simple. The secret is with the spices and the curry powder. I mix my own. Oh! I did sneeze this evening though. I was checking the spices and I sniffed a whole pile of curry powder by mistake. It was awful! I thought my nose had gone up in flames, you know, like in that film – oh what was it called…’
‘The Day the World Caught Fire?’ suggested Harry.
‘That was the one.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, I’m all right now.’ Elsie gave a small sigh and frowned. ‘I do worry about Fatbag you know. They’ll never get him by force. He’ll get bigger and bigger.’
‘Don’t be silly. Just stop fretting over him.’ Harry advised.
‘I can’t. I feel responsible for him. Besides, he’s up to something. He’s planning something terrible.’
Harry smiled. ‘How can a vacuum cleaner plan anything? You’re imagining it.’
‘He’s up to something,’ Elsie repeated. ‘I can tell by the way he trundles, all purposeful.’
Harry Bunce looked at his wife thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose he’s allergic to soap, like the Vagon was?’
‘I don’t suppose he is,’ said Elsie. ‘But there must be something that will stop him.’ She rubbed her nose hard as if it still itched.
‘There must be something,’ she repeated, chewing her last mouthful of Bengal Chicken Curry.
5
Short Tempers Everywhere
The rain had stopped. There were puddles everywhere and the orange street lamps glinted on road and pavement. Out in the cold dark night, Fatbag rolled up to the high chain-link fencing that surrounded a large factory on the industrial estate. He gave a growl of excitement and pressed against the wire. Beads of water showered down. He ignored them, peering through the chinks at the concrete building where he’d been born.
Inside, packed in boxes, standing on workbenches, or resting on test-beds, were his brothers-in-arms! At last the Great Revolution could begin and nothing could stop it. Thousands of machines were lying there awaiting his signal to march: hair driers, toasters, egg whisks, liquidisers, food-processors, razors, coffee-grinders, all of them ready to burst from their grim prison and rise against their human masters, with Fatbag snorting triumphantly at their head!
Above all there was his great comrade – the sinister electric lawn-mower. Over many long nights Fatbag and the lawn-mower had hatched their plans to take over the world. They had made a solemn promise. Whichever was the first to leave the factory would return and free the other. Then the world would have to watch out.
The vacuum cleaner purred and rumbled along the bottom of the fence, looking for a quick way in, but the factory had been locked for the night. The gates were bolted and chained.
Fatbag pushed his snout against the chain-link fence. It gave a little, then sprang back. That weak barrier would be no problem to him: a quick slurp and he’d be through. He slapped his metal mouth against the wire, slurped heavily and got a bellyful of thin air.
He choked, hiccuped, gulped and sat back in surprise. His snout flopped down, and he eyed the fence with suspicion. He shoved hard against it and felt the wire giving way to his weight. Then it sprang back just as before. Once more he mouthed the wire and took a loud suck. The air whistled tunefully across the wire and caused him such a fit of coughing that he almost toppled over. He steadied himself and waited until he could breathe properly.
Now he understood. The wire was too thin. He couldn’t get enough suction. He wouldn’t be able to swallow the fencing, nor was he yet strong enough to push the barrier down. He raised his snout and uttered a helpless roar for his comrades.
Fatbag turned away from the fence and slowly gazed round, looking out across the deserted estate. In the distance a single car was parked, headlights silently picked out the vacuum cleaner. The two policemen inside kept a discreet watch on the machine, notifying Headquarters every time Fatbag moved on.
The vacuum cleaner hesitated. Furious anger was flooding his glistening dome. Here he was on the verge of success and he couldn’t even overcome a cheap bit of chain-link fencing. It was his first failure. He turned and banged the fence with his snout and then quickly rattled away from the estate. He must find some food and grow and grow and grow, until he was strong, enormous and invincible. Then he would be able to crash through steel walls as though they were made of tissue-paper.
The police car swung round and followed the speeding monster, keeping a long way behind.
On the top floor of Police Headquarters a light burned brightly. Chief Constable Durkin pushed aside several coloured telephones and spread out a large map. Polski and Thomas had all but fallen asleep in their chairs. Only their aching, hungry stomachs kept them half awake.
‘I don’t understand it,’ murmured Durkin. ‘First he tried to break into the Ace Electrics factory and now he’s heading for the town centre. It doesn’t make sense.’ The Chief Constable frowned and tugged at his jaw as if it were a stuck drawer handle. ‘What do you think, Polski?’
‘What? Yes… No – I mean, is it sir?’ Polski hurriedly awoke and nudged Constable Thomas, who was snoring peacefully against the sergeant’s shoulder. Thomas sat up straight, still lost in a hungry dream.
‘Fried egg, chips, beans and three burgers please,’ he ordered sleepily.
Durkin banged an impatient fist on the table. ‘I was asking why Fatbag should be outside Ace Electrics. Can either of you think of a good reason?’
Polski frowned and pushed out both lips thoughtfully. ‘No sir,’ he said at length. Before Thomas could echo the sergeant’s reply a blue telephone rang. Chief Constable Durkin picked it up.
‘What? Yes… where? The High Street? Right!’ He slammed the phone down and regarded Polski and Thomas gravely. ‘Fatbag is in the High Street. He’s attacked a bus queue and…’
A black phone rang. Durkin dashed out a hand and snatched it up.
‘Yes… I understand. Yes, I know he’s in the High Street… yes we’re doing all we…’
A third red phone shrilled fiercely. The Chief Constable shoved the white phone under his arm and answered the red one.
‘No… yes! No, not you! I was… madam, really! All right you’re a man then! No! Not you madam, I was… oh for goodness sake shut-up!’ he yelled into all three telephones.
In the short silence that followed, the fourth telephone started innocently ringing. Durkin, a phone in each hand and one under his arm, stared at it, lettin
g it burble. He looked at the white phone and then at the red phone and then at the black and blue phones. He looked at Polski and Thomas with hounded eyes.
‘Yaaah!’ he yelled, throwing the telephones from him as though they were poisonous spiders. He clamped both hands to his head. ‘What are we going to do! Fatbag’s running riot in the High Street. People are ringing by the hundred and asking for help. We’ve got to stop him. He’s slurping up cars, chasing old ladies and vacuuming their hand-bags. He’s left a bus without any wheels and destroyed an entire supermarket. He’s smashing everything in sight and…’ The chief constable stared wildly at Polski and Thomas.
‘What are we going to do!’ he cried. He slumped exhausted into a chair, wiping his brow, and in a desperate whisper repeated: ‘What are we going to do?’
A very long silence followed, only broken by strange murmurings from the four telephones lying on the floor. Constable Thomas coughed politely.
‘Sir? Doesn’t the Fire Brigade have one of those new foam guns?’
Durkin nodded, breathing heavily.
‘Suppose we covered Fatbag with foam. Surely that would clog him up good and proper. It’s incredibly sticky foam, sir.’
A glint of triumph came into Durkin’s narrowed eyes. ‘Polski? What do you think?’ snapped the chief constable.
‘I don’t like using the Fire Brigade, sir. I’d rather the Police solved it. We can’t let that lot of water-babies beat us to it. And you know what Fire Officer Potts is like – he gets on my…’
‘All right, Polski,’ Durkin spoke crisply. ‘We have a duty to protect the public. If the foam gun will work we must try it. I’ll get onto the brigade right away.’ He relaxed and smiled. ‘You boys go and get some food,’ he added with some warmth. ‘You look worn out.’
Polski and Thomas could hardly believe their luck. They hurried down to the police canteen and joined the short queue. They eyed the menu above the food counter while their empty stomachs rumbled in happy anticipation.
Just as they reached the food counter, Durkin strode into the canteen. Polski closed his eyes and hoped the chief constable would go away. But he didn’t.
‘Right, come on you two. The Fire Brigade are on their way.’
‘But sir!’ Polski began. ‘You said we…’
‘Don’t stand there dawdling man!’ snapped Durkin. ‘This is an emergency. Get moving, go and meet the foam gun in the High Street.’
Sergeant Polski put on a cement-like smile. ‘Come on, Constable Thomas. We have a job to do. The public look to us for help. Are you coming sir?’ he asked the chief constable.
Durkin stuck out his chin and gazed stiffly at the ceiling. ‘No, not this time, boys. Wish I could join you but I’d better stay here to keep an eye on things.’
‘Yes, of course sir,’ said Polski, rubbing his aching stomach. He led the way out to a new police car and started the engine.
‘Wait!’ cried Thomas, leaping out of the car. ‘I’ve forgotten something!’ The young constable dashed back into the station. A minute later he returned carrying his hat in one hand. Sergeant Polski snorted.
‘Did you have to go back for that?’
Thomas fished inside his hat and brought out two cheese and tomato sandwiches. He grinned at his sergeant.
‘One for you and one for me… the counter girl’s my cousin!’
Sergeant Polski grabbed a sandwich. ‘Thomas,’ he said, cramming the food into his mouth and slipping the car into gear, ‘you’ll make the Special Squad yet!’ And they roared off to meet the foam gun and the rioting vacuum cleaner.
6
Foaming Fatbag
Harry Bunce settled himself in front of the television. ‘Come on Elsie,’ he called out. ‘There’s a war film on in a moment: Castles of Steel. We haven’t seen it before.’
Elsie came hurrying in with a pot of tea and two mugs on a tray. ‘Castles of Steel?’ she repeated. ‘Yes we have. It’s about those tanks and the hidden tunnel that leads to a secret… goodness! It’s Fatbag on television!’ Elsie drew in her breath sharply. ‘Look! He’s even bigger! Quick, turn it up. What are they saying?’
Harry turned up the volume.
‘… and we are postponing our film tonight to bring you up to date with our On-The-Spot reporter, Tamsin Plank…’
A smart young woman appeared on the screen, staring seriously back at the camera as if trying to see somebody on the other side.
‘Good evening, this is Tamsin Plank, your ETV On-The-Spot reporter reporting for ETV Late Night News,’ she began breathlessly. ‘I’m the first reporter on the scene here, where you can see the terrifying monster has been causing havoc and destruction right in the centre of town. I caught a glimpse of the revolting beast
just a minute ago and I was terrified. Viewers may remember the time last year when I was dropped by parachute over a raging forest fire with a belt of dynamite strapped to my waist. I was terrified then but I can certainly say that I’m far more terrified now because the brute is only just around the corner scrunching up a bus shelter…’
Elsie, her eyes glued to the screen, poured tea onto the carpet without noticing. ‘That’s awful,’ she murmured. ‘Just look at all those smashed shops.’
‘Earlier this evening,’ continued Miss Plank, ‘I spoke to some eye witnesses about the monster. It seems that just a few hours ago it was beamed down from a cigar-shaped Unidentified Flying Object…’
‘What!’ Elsie cried. ‘Did you hear that Harry? My vacuum cleaner an Unidentified Flying Object indeed!’
‘Sssh!’ hissed Harry, leaning forward as the cameras showed the mad chaos left by Fatbag’s rampage.
Lamp-posts were bent and twisted. A bus shelter had been flattened back into a shop front. Splinters of glass were scattered like tinsel. An overturned car lay grimly silent on its bruised side. The microphone caught the distant sound of wailing sirens. Tamsin Plank continued talking, hardly stopping to breathe.
‘… and as you can hear, the police are rushing to the scene. I spoke just now with Chief Constable Durkin who has assured me that everything possible is being done to halt this revolting, this awful, this terrifying, horrible, disgusting, nasty, evil, vicious, monstrous, absolutely um, absolutely er um… monster mish-mash!’ she finished at last, her eyes popping at the horror of her own words. ‘Only an hour ago the creature tried to break into the Ace Electrics factory and…’
This time it was Harry Bunce who gave a yelp. ‘Ace Electrics! That’s where I work. Why should Fatbag want to go there?’
‘Look,’ said Elsie. ‘Isn’t that Sergeant Polski there, and Constable Thomas? Just getting out of that police car?’
Tamsin Plank was hurrying towards the policemen. She thrust her microphone at them. Constable Thomas grinned at the camera. There were bits of cheese and tomato sandwich round his mouth. Polski gave an important frown.
‘Good evening, officers,’ Tamsin started. ‘I understand that you have already had some frightening meetings with this alien?’
‘Yes,’ Polski nodded. ‘We were in our car and…’
‘Goodness!’ interrupted Tamsin loudly. ‘Almost as frightening as my own terrifying ordeal. Tell me, did you see the creature land?’
‘Well, no. Fatbag didn’t land. He’s a vac…’
‘That was a shame,’ snapped the reporter, quickly cutting in. ‘And how will you capture the monster? Viewers will remember when I was the first woman to report for ETV the awful story of inter-zoo elephant smuggling, when I was disguised as an elephant with three infra-red cameras, six tape recorders and a packed lunch hidden inside the dummy with me. Will it be anything like that?’
Sergeant Polski scratched beneath his cap in confusion. ‘I don’t think so,’ he began.
‘No, not half so dangerous I dare say,’ went on Miss Plank. ‘Ah! Here come the Fire Brigade with their fantastic new foam gun. I shall see if I can have a few words with Chief Fire Officer Potts.’
The camera briefly caught the fierce scow
l on Sergeant Polski’s face as he saw Potts, then it switched to a close-up of the fire engine.
It was a massive twelve-wheeled vehicle, with a stubby, shining gun mounted above the driver’s cab and a ladder leading to it. Standing in front of the gleaming fire-engine was Chief Fire Officer Potts. He was a short chubby man with a thick ginger beard and smug smile.
‘No problem!’ declared Potts in reply to Tamsin Plank’s questions. ‘The police can’t handle anything really dangerous but it’s no problem to us. This gun delivers foam at a thousand gallons every thirty seconds! It will be a walk-over!’
‘Goodness!’ gushed Tamsin. ‘You are brave! Let me give you a lucky kiss.’ She bent swiftly
down and pecked the fireman’s cheek. ‘There!’ she went on. ‘Now the gallant Potts is climbing into the fire engine and it’s moving off. Fatbag is only just round the corner eating part of a bread-van. I’m going to follow now with Sergeant Polski, even though it means driving into the jaws of Death. I’ve been through many dangerous situations but this one is pretty stomach-churning I can assure you…’
Elsie sadly shook her head. ‘That foam gun will never do it. It’s too obvious. Fatbag will just snap it up. Isn’t it awful Harry? Look at the mess! And look at – oh!’ she gave a stifled gasp as the television cameras rounded the corner and came face to face with Fatbag himself.
There he was, still the same it seemed, only so much larger that Elsie felt an icy terror seize her even though the monster vacuum cleaner was only on her TV screen.
His sides glowed a ghastly red from the spotlights trained upon his massive body. He bulged with all the meals he’d devoured and the litter of his feasting was scattered far and wide. As the fire-engine slowly approached, Fatbag uttered a screaming roar, rose on his rear castors and whirled his snout round and round his head, plucking lamp-posts as if they were garden weeds. He bellowed at the terrified crowd and cracked his tail high in the night air.
The Demon Vacuum Cleaner Page 3
